Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MADISON

“Stupid, stubborn, overbearing”—I slam the door behind me as I storm into our apartment. My hands shake with pent-up rage as I fling my bag onto the couch, not caring where it lands— “Asshole!”

“What the hell is wrong?” Amanda’s voice jolts me from my outrage. That’s when I finally noticed her curled up on the couch, reading a textbook just inches away from where I flung my purse.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Apparently.” Her shoulders shake as she closes her book and sits upright. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a moment when I stare into Amanda’s green eyes, and I want to confess everything. It kills me to keep this massive secret from her. But I can’t get her involved. Not now. Not after talking to my dad. Not only does she have enough to worry about with her internship and dating arrangement, but I can’t have her anywhere near the fallout if things go south.

It’s not that I don’t trust Amanda. She’s so reliable, but Blake isn’t. My father slammed me today over what Becky casually told her dad. I can’t risk having another hit if Blake accidentally spills our secret.

Nope. It’s best to keep her from knowing.

“I just got back from my dad’s office. He heard about my entering that art contest and warned me against pursuing it.” That’s not a complete lie. The subject came up after he yelled about me helping Ryan with his studies. But oof, walking into his office was torturous...

Dad was on the phone when I entered his office. He greeted me by snapping his fingers and motioning me to sit. His sharp voice was clipped, and I felt sorry for whoever was on the receiving end.

I feel you, buddy, having been there myself a few times too many.

I tried slowing my breath, but my heart still pounded rapidly. Glancing around at the sterile, white walls Dad stared at daily, I refrained from shaking my head. It was no wonder the man was grouchy. He had no color in his life.

But once the phone call ended, his interrogation began.

“What am I hearing about you hanging around that Sorenson kid?”

My eyes widened. How the hell did he hear about that? We’d been discrete. But I wasn’t sure if he was talking about us studying together or our extracurricular activities.

I proceeded with caution. “Ryan’s in my physics class. We had to partner up.”

“Well, dissolve it. Do you need me to make a phone call to the professor?”

“No! God, Dad. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that my daughter doesn’t need to be hanging around slime-sucking vermin who wants to seize an opportunity.”

My teeth clenched. “That isn’t fair.”

“Why are you helping that boy? He’s the last thing you need to be hanging around. Don’t you know what his family is doing to us?”

“They just want retribution for making him go on the roof when it wasn’t his job.”

I’d never seen my father’s face tint to crimson before. I kept waiting for the steam to blow from his ears; he was so angry.

“Do not speak to me that way again. I don’t need you filling your head with the desire to get close to someone beneath you. You need to do the family right.”

“We’re not royalty. Ryan isn’t a commoner.”

“Isn’t he? His father was our landscaper. I doubt his son does anything spectacular.”

“Wow.”

“Watch your tone. Do you know how embarrassing it was to have Clippenger tell me my daughter was hanging with this filth?”

So it was Becky’s big mouth. She must’ve said something to her father. Son of a bitch. I guess I should’ve been worried after seeing her that first night.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I should’ve said something to her. Though, I’m not sure it would’ve helped. She does tend to start trouble. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did this on purpose.

I shut down after learning that.

He went into the diabolical triad of focusing on my studies and less on my art. The same old tiring thing.

“You’re not going to listen to him, are you?” The shrill in Amanda’s voice shakes me back to the present.

“About entering the art contest? No! I’m determined tosee that through.” But I’m also not going to stop seeing Ryan. But we still need to keep a low profile in public.

“Good. You’ve been working hard on the sketches.”

The tension in my shoulders eases as I sink into the armchair. Amanda’s presence is like a hot mint tea, soothing the raw edges of my emotions.

“God, I wish I could just … I don’t know, run away to Paris and become a starving artist or something.” My laugh is hollow. “Wouldn’t that be wild?”

“I think you’ve watched too much Emily in Paris . I believe your experience may be different.”

My gaze drifts to my bag, where my sketchbook is hidden beneath piles of physics notes. I can almost feel the weight of my latest charcoal drawing, a piece I poured my heart into last night instead of studying for my upcoming exam.

“I love art, Amanda. It’s not just a hobby. It’s … it’s part of who I am.” I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to cry. “But how can I tell him that without disappointing everyone?”

“The only person you need to worry about is yourself.” Her face softens. “Why don’t you go to the next hockey game with me.”

My eyebrows lift. “You’re going to the game?”

“Yeah, Blake wants me to, so...” She shrugs.

“Wow, that’s something.”

“I have to work, so we may miss kick-off.”

“Face-off.”

“What?”

“It’s called face-off in hockey. I can’t believe you’re such good friends with Ryan and know nothing about the sport.”

“See, that’s why you should go. To make sure I’m using the correct hockey lingo.”

The yes is on the tip of my tongue. I want to go badly. Not only would it keep Amanda company, but it would make Ryan happy. A win-win.

Ryan.

Dad’s threat hangs in my mind. It’s best to not step foot in the arena or anywhere near him. It’s going to be harder to find a private place to study. Harder yet for my “extracurricular activities.” But I don’t know what to do.

“I better not,” I say.

“If you change your mind, let me know.”

“Will do.” I stand and point to my bedroom. “I need to unwind.”

Amanda grabs her book. “If you need me, I’ll be right here.”

I nod and slip into my room. The familiar scent of ink and paper hits me like a rush of cool air after stepping off the ice. This right here is my sanctuary. It’s my personal dressing room where I can strip away the expectations and just be me.

My eyes land on the easel in the corner, and suddenly, I’m drawn to it like a bookworm to a new release. I grab a large sheet of paper, securing it with practiced ease. My hands are already reaching for the charcoal before my brain can catch up.

“Alright, Grimes,” I mutter, “time to show ’em what you’ve got.”

Calmness washes over me as I position myself in front of the easel. This world is different from the rigid world of dentistry my parents wanted for me. Here, there are no textbooks, no memorization, no precision tools. Just me, the paper, and the raw emotion coursing through my veins.

I dip the paintbrush in the ink and, without overthinking, make the first stroke. There is no plan. Just the freedom of letting pure emotions guide me.

Gliding the ink across the paper in bold, jagged strokes, I lay the groundwork for the left side of the canvas. I equate it to being on the ice, cutting through defenses, and dodging expectations. Each mark is a small rebellion against the life mapped out for me.

“Take that, Dad,” I mutter, pressing harder as I sketch the outline of a figure. “And this one’s for you, Mom.”

Mom doesn’t annoy me as much as my father, but she never sticks up for me. Not once has she gone to bat for me. It’s frustrating.

My mind quiets, focusing solely on the rhythm of my hand and the emerging image. Everything about the day fades away until it’s just me and my art. I pour everything into each stroke and let my emotions bleed into layering and building depth until what’s created is half an image of a sad face. The emotions pour off the page. But I don’t stop. I dive into the other side. It’s like I’m on autopilot, beginning with outlining the hard edges of the mask. My hand moves along the planes as the jester’s mask takes shape.

I sit back and stare at my creation. The drawing is raw and unfiltered. Messy and imperfect.

Just like my life right now.

The light and dark contrasts balance each other and capture the essence of the subject’s core character.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for the perfect smile business after all,” I whisper to myself, a small smile tugging at my lips.

I run a hand through my tangled curls, not caring about the smudges of ink I’m probably leaving behind. My eyes drift back to the drawing and take in the chaos and beauty of it.

The sad undertones of the female hidden behind the jester’s mask mimic my life. The jester’s mask smiles brightly, almost triumphantly, but the eyes tell a different story. They are haunted, yearning, and heartbreakingly honest.

I hadn’t set out to create a mimesis. But I poured everything I had into this creation: sadness, fear, and the facade of being happy.

The corner of my mouth lifts to a smirk. I just found my theme: The Hidden Stage.

A giddiness like none other bubbles inside. I have yet to create the side pieces to complete the collection, but ideas jump at me, all related to the centralized theme and centerpiece.

“If I had a sibling, what they would think about this?” My voice is barely audible as I speak into the void. “Would they have fallen in step as I have my entire life? Or would they have followed their heart as I desperately want to do?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. But a sense of clarity settles over me.

I can’t keep playing by their rules. It’s slowly killing me. All the healthy drinks in the world won’t save me from a mental battle.

I push myself up from my chair and stretch my achy muscles with a deep breath. With one last look, I commit every line and shadow to memory. It’s not just art; it’s a piece of my soul laid bare on paper.

“I know what I need to do.”

Determined, I stride toward the door. It’s funny how I feel ten times lighter than when I arrived. It’s like shedding layers of paint to reveal the raw canvas underneath.

My feet pad across the floor to the living room until I find Amanda still buried in her textbook.

She quirks an eyebrow when she catches the grin across my face. “Hey, Picasso. You good?”

I flop onto the couch beside her, my smile spreading wider. “You know what? I think I am.”

Amanda sets her book aside, giving me her full attention. “Spill. What’s got you looking like you just unveiled your masterpiece?”

I laugh, the sound freer than it’s been in weeks. “Let’s just say I’m done sketching in the margins. It’s time to start painting the big picture.”

“Oh?” Amanda leans in, intrigued. “And what’s your next stroke of genius, Van Gogh?”

“Better. Not only did I create my main focal piece, but I came up with a new revelation.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” I take a deep breath and let the words tumble out before I second-guess myself. “I’m switching my major to Art.”

I’ve shocked Amanda into silence as the moment hangs between us. My heart pounds, like I’ve just put my first brushstroke on a piece that could change everything.

And the truth of the matter is, it will.